


Dust of Snow

by mymotheristherepublic



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Fluff, Innuendo, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Unresolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-05
Updated: 2016-07-05
Packaged: 2018-07-21 18:10:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7398100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mymotheristherepublic/pseuds/mymotheristherepublic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The way a crow<br/>Shook down on me<br/>The dust of snow<br/>From a hemlock tree </p>
<p>Has given my heart<br/>A change of mood<br/>And saved some part<br/>Of a day I had rued.</p>
<p>- Robert Frost</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust of Snow

“How do you live this way?”

Aurelian looks up from clearing a spot of ground with his foot, watches Zevran emerge from his tent.

He grins. “You were supposed to join the watch five minutes ago.”

“Think of it this way: a minute for every inch of snow.”

Aurelian looks out over the area. The clearing they've camped in has turned an even white overnight, the undisturbed blanket of snow disappearing into the dark beyond the treeline. He'd feel bad for marking it up if it wasn't freezing the soles of his boots.

“This isn't five inches,” he says.

Zevran huffs, a ghost of a laugh. “That's what they all say, no?”

He's wrapped himself in so much extra clothing that Aurelian would have been hard pressed to identify him if he hadn't heard him speak. The scarf he stole from Alistair covers his neck up to his chin--the one Wynne gave him wraps about his face, over his nose and half his ears. A flimsy hat from the last town they passed hides the rest, save for his eyes. He didn't join the group owning a coat; Aurelian doesn't know where he came by the two layers he's currently wearing, and he's not sure he wants to.

“You don't have to stand guard tonight,” Aurelian says. “I know I said we needed to watch in pairs--”

“Preferential treatment isn't going to make them trust me.”

He crosses his arms. “You're determined.”

“I know how people work.”

Zevran likewise folds his arms over his chest. What little is visible of his cheeks and nose is bright pink. Aurelian recalls a distant memory of wondering what color Zevran blushed, a thought he'd quickly squashed and decided not to pursue the answer to.

“I guess the weather's better in Antiva?”

Zevran nods, barely. “My country is still warm this time of year. Less humid, perhaps, but snow? Snow is an unwelcome guest. The day it snows in Antiva City is the day the Maker forgives us all and gives me a mansion overlooking the Rialto Bay for my devotion.”

A light breeze picks up the loose snow around them and blows it against Aurelian’s face. As much as he's never been fond of the cold, he doesn't bother to wear anything more than his uniform and a long coat a charitable soul gave him in Denerim.

“If your service to the Maker gets you a mansion,” he says, “mine ought to get me a place at his side. Andraste’s going to have to share him.”

The corners of Zevran’s eyes crinkle. He has the wrinkles of a man who does not care if smiling grants them. Aurelian stares down at his feet and lets himself do the same.

“You don't need to hide, Warden. You have a lovely face, yes?”

“I'm not sure of that myself.”

Zevran shrugs. “I'd brag, but as you can see, I'm in no position to uncover mine.”

Aurelian pushes his hands into the pockets of his coat and turns to face him, one eyebrow cocked. “Would my eyes be unable to handle it? Maybe that's why one went bad, don't want to risk the other.”

For a moment, Zevran lowers his scarf. His face has flushed wholly, a dark rose color lingering at his extremities like a noblewoman too liberal with her rouge.

“There's a log by the fire,” he says. “We'll see whoever approaches the camp anyhow, just from a few more feet away. If nothing else, we'll hear them.”

Aurelian’s eyes flicker towards the campfire, then to Zevran again. “I'd rather stand. I never feel quite on my guard when I'm off my feet.”

“Suit yourself, my friend. I'll stay with you.”

Zevran, resigned, covers his face again as Aurelian begins to move about the camp perimeter. The snow crunches under his feet; perhaps they  _ would  _ hear anyone approaching. But he won't feel secure unless his knife is close at hand and his legs are tensed to run.

A hand brushes his shoulder. Too gentle to be anyone else. He frees his hand from his pocket to offer his arm, and Zevran does not take it. Instead, he slips his fingers between Aurelian’s, and the creases beneath his eyes deepen again.

“I don't have gloves,” he whispers, perhaps an excuse.

Aurelian squeezes his hand. “We'll find you some.”


End file.
